


The Nice Young Man Upstairs

by irisbleufic



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-09
Updated: 2010-12-09
Packaged: 2018-01-02 05:42:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1053160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>John can tell that Sherlock is quickly losing his patience with the kind, white-haired pensioner lady they've been questioning for the better part of an hour.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Nice Young Man Upstairs

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written and posted to LJ in December of 2010.

John can tell that Sherlock is quickly losing his patience with the kind, white-haired pensioner lady they've been questioning for the better part of an hour. It amuses John only slightly that she shares his sister's name. It suits this woman in ways that it could never suit Harry, so it's just as well she picked up a suitable nickname at university.

"You're certain," Sherlock continues, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, "absolutely _certain_ you didn't hear anything in the flat next door yesterday evening. No shouting or screaming, no commotion to indicate a struggle?"

"This building is good, solid construction," says Harriet, sipping her tea in a self-satisfied sort of way. "I don't hear much through these walls. The ceiling, though, I can hear footsteps and voices up there when Anthony is entertaining."

Sherlock frowns. "Anthony? Who might that be?"

"The nice young man upstairs," Harriet says, offering them the plate of biscuits again. "He's a dear. Quite sad, you know, until he found himself a..." Harriet pauses, considering her words carefully, and John knows exactly what's coming. "Gentleman friend. To keep him company. He's one of those lonely corporate types. They live out of town now, but come back every few months. Like now, for the holidays. I'm glad he kept the flat. Now that it's empty most of the time, I get peace and quiet."

John can't help thinking about the would-be city suicides. He accepts another biscuit.

"Would Anthony have heard anything?"

"I couldn't tell you, dear," says Harriet. "You might nip up and have a word with him."

"He's home?" John asks. "You're sure?"

"He _does_ love his evenings in with some wine and Mr. Fell. He's a nice gentleman, that one. Very proper. Owned a book shop in Soho for a number of years. It fetched a pretty penny, given the building was listed. They bought a cottage."

At the mention of books, Sherlock's expression changes from annoyed to interested.

"Thank you for your time, Mrs. Cantor," he says, taking her withered hand briefly between his own. "And thank you _very_ much for the tea."

"You ought to have had a biscuit or two," Harriet tells Sherlock, her eyes askance at John, as if to scold him for not taking good enough care. "You're too thin."

 _Canny one_ , John thinks. _She's had time to learn what this looks like._

"High metabolism, nothing for it," says Sherlock, buttoning his coat as he rises.

"Thank you, Mrs. Cantor," says John. "Happy Christmas. Keep warm."

She sees Sherlock out the door first, holding John back for a moment. She wraps the rest of the biscuits in a napkin and tucks them into his coat pocket. It's weird and endearing, the way that all of London feels compelled to feed them up.

John follows Sherlock up two flights of stairs. Anthony hasn't got a doorbell, but he _does_ have a brass knocker and an engraved brass name-plate. _CROWLEY_ , it says in ornate letters. Anthony Crowley. It's a yuppie-ish name if John ever heard one. 

Sherlock raps on the wooden door impatiently, ignoring the knocker.

It's only a few seconds before John realizes the voices in the background hadn't just been the telly. One of them approaches, muttering something irritated to the other ("...no manners, that postman of yours..."), and the door swings open. A middle-aged man with greying blond hair and spectacles peers out at them curiously. 

John estimates that he must be in his late forties, or perhaps in his early fifties.

"Oh," says the man. "You're not the post."

"No," Sherlock agrees. "We're the law, if you like. I'm looking for Anthony Crowley."

The other voice, its owner just out of sight, mutters something impolite.

"Crowley, dear," says Mr. Fell, "I think the detective would like to ask you a few questions regarding that horrible business downstairs." He turns back to Sherlock. "We only just heard this morning. Horrible business." The repetition makes Sherlock flinch.

"Were you present yesterday evening, too?" Sherlock asks. "In which case, I'll need to speak with both of you." If he's surprised that Mr. Fell has correctly assumed his job title, he doesn't show it. John knows that if he'd been called a private detective, he might have taken the time to correct Mr. Fell's error.

"Let them in," sighs Crowley, wearily.

The room is startlingly pale, smooth walls and plush carpeting and white leather furniture. All four of them are on their feet, stiff and awkward, although it's clear that Crowley had been lounging on the sofa until a few seconds earlier. He's skinny and well dressed, not unlike Sherlock, but the similarities end there. He's not as tall, for one; in fact, he's only a little bit taller than John, and even Mr. Fell hasn't got much more than half an inch on Crowley. He's blinking rapidly, almost panicked, as if he's been caught without his clothing. It's then that John notices his eyes: startling yellow-gold, like those contacts you see on teenagers at Halloween.

Sherlock seems to have fixated on the same detail, but he looks disturbed instead of perplexed. He's muttering under his breath, and John realizes it's a list of medical conditions relating to the eyes. None of them would account for what they're seeing.

Uncomfortably, John realizes that Sherlock knows something he doesn't.

"Apologies for the interruption," Sherlock says, averting his gaze. It's a bizarre, telling action; John has never once seen Sherlock look away, and they've seen their fair share of atrocities. "You have, no doubt, been told what happened to one of your downstairs neighbors yesterday evening. I was wondering if you might have heard—"

"We'd been out to dinner," supplies Mr. Fell, helpfully. "By the time we had returned, let's say around eight o'clock, the police had already arrived."

Sherlock turns his attention on Mr. Fell, with no small amount of relief.

"I need you to be more specific than that."

"We returned," says Crowley, softly, "at seven forty-six."

John sets both hands on the back of the sofa, bracing himself. Something about the strain of the situation isn't settling well with his leg: Crowley's strange eyes, Sherlock's curious agitation, and now the sense that, in spite of their obvious innocence, these men nonetheless _know something_.

Sherlock graces Crowley with a tentative glance. 

"And you know this because—?"

"That's what the clock said when I turned off the car."

Sherlock nods. "Did any of the police approach you as you entered the building?"

"No," says Mr. Fell. "We were engaged in conversation, I fear."

"Did you know Elizabeth Kelly?" Sherlock asks Crowley, ignoring Fell altogether.

"Only in passing," Crowley replies, rubbing the back of his neck. "She used to check up on the few potted plants I'd left behind. I'll have to move them all now, though. Harriet's in no condition to take over where Elizabeth left off."

"Mrs. Cantor mentioned that you've moved," John says. "Where do you live?"

"Further south," says Crowley. "Tiny village on the Downs. Nobody's ever heard of it."

"I'm quite familiar with East Dean and environs," Sherlock says, and it's a low blow, as always, but that gets Crowley's attention. "You're sentimental enough to connect it with your love of history. Please, don't be alarmed. The location's becoming trendy, and your bookshelf is perfectly visible."

Crowley looks more irritated than alarmed.

"Some of those are mine," Mr. Fell cheerfully points out. 

_Directing Sherlock's attention away from him_ , John thinks. _Protective_.

"Not the ones I'm looking at," says Sherlock, somewhat snappish.

Crowley sighs and runs a hand through his already mussed hair.

"We can't help you," he says. "And I'm sorry she's dead. I never liked her boyfriend."

"Why?" Sherlock asks, his eyes suddenly alight.

"Too pushy," says Crowley, fiercely. "He tended to boss her around. Insult her."

"I'm sorry," Sherlock says, and John realizes he's heard him apologize more in a single day than he's heard in the ten months they've been living together (six of which had been spent as more than just flatmates, as Harriet had accurately perceived). "You liked her very much, perhaps considered her a friend. My condolences."

Crowley, staring hard at the floor, doesn't answer.

"If you don't mind," says Mr. Fell, "we'd best be getting on with lunch."

" _Hmmm_ ," Sherlock murmurs. "We'll be on our way, then."

Crowley wanders off to the kitchen, either relieved or upset, John can't decide which. Mr. Fell practically pushes Sherlock out the door, and John finds his wrist taken in a firm grasp. It's not threatening, but it's stern enough for him to reach instinctively for his gun even though he hasn't actually got it on his person.

"They'll never find him," Mr. Fell says, his blue eyes piercing. "Do understand I'm trying to save you the trouble. The mischief-prone engineer their own undoing."

"They?" John echoes. "They'll never find _who_?"

"The police," Mr. Fell clarifies, "will never find their suspect. Neither will your friend, try though he might. It's an admirable effort, of course. Very public-spirited."

John swallows and nods, pulling his hand free of Mr. Fell's grasp. 

"I'll keep that in mind," he says, and steps into the hall. "Happy Christmas."

In response, the door closes. Sherlock is waiting down one flight, on the landing, staring wide-eyed up at John with his hands deep in his pockets. It's an expression that John hasn't seen since their stand-off with Moriarty, and it breaks his heart just as much now as it had then. John joins him on the landing with some difficulty.

"They didn't do it, and they weren't there when it happened," Sherlock mutters, taking John's arm as they descend the final set of stairs. "But they _know_ something."

"Have you ever just decided to leave well enough alone? Leave it to the police?"

"Elizabeth Kelly was stabbed twenty-seven times and then partially decapitated," Sherlock says, his tone so strikingly similar to Crowley's when he'd given his estimation of Elizabeth's boyfriend that John can't help but shudder.

"Justice has a way of catching up with nasty blokes like that."

Sherlock holds the front door open for him, and, once more, they're out in the cold.

"Hey, look," John murmurs. "It's snowing again." 

The fairy lights in Mrs. Cantor's window cast everything around them in a soft, eerie glow, in spite of the fact it's still daylight. Sherlock contemplates her small Christmas tree, which is visible through the parted curtains, not quite smiling.

"Mrs. Hudson wanted help with her decorations last night. I turned her down."

"Then let's go fix that," John says, tugging on his scarf. "Sherlock. _Look_ at me."

Sherlock does. He seems a bit lost, as if giving up on a case means he'll never live it down. It's annoying, having to pull him down for a kiss, but he gets the idea and opens his mouth to the swipe of John's tongue, pulling John up tight against him.

As for whoever might be watching, well, they're bound to forgive them the indulgence.


End file.
